


Royal Wine In Abundance

by basketofnovas (slashmarks)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol, BDSM, Bondage, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:51:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5569957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashmarks/pseuds/basketofnovas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Israel and Iran run into each other in NYC on Purim. Contains drunk, ill-advised bondage, and a Queen Esther costume.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Royal Wine In Abundance

**Author's Note:**

> The characterization of Israel is a combination of [koskus's](http://koskus.tumblr.com) and [Tassledown's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tassledown). He was named by Tassledown. The characterization of Iran is partially based on kosus's, but only loosely.
> 
> If you are offended by the premise or pairing, consider not reading. (I'd apologize, but, well, you clicked.)
> 
> This is a work of fiction, etc, **please don't do BDSM drunk.**

Normally Noam doesn't get stuck traveling on holidays, but getting caught in bizarre places on Purim has somehow become kind of a tradition? Like, there was this one time he ended up in _Beijing_ of all the stupid places taking shots of baijiu in the Israeli embassy, _with_ China actually, who seemed to find the entire thing hilarious.

In comparison to that New York City is practically home. For one thing there are plenty of synagogues to choose from. So he's exiting the place he picked after the service and everything's done, debating if he should just cheat and use the Nation way of short cutting things to go home, or if he's sober enough to find his way on the streets, when he spots her.

There's another Nation exiting the same synagogue, but from the women's section, which is obviously why he didn't notice her before. (Noam isn't Orthodox but he sticks out in synagogues where everyone is light skinned and sometimes he doesn't feel like sticking out, so he ended up in the closest one he found with a lot of Middle Eastern Jews and it turned out they had segregated prayer sections,  _so_ .)

Anyway, he notices her coming out and not before and he's really drunk by then, drunk enough he actually doesn't recognize her by feel. The Queen Esther costume she's wearing includes a really long veil hanging from the crown, an opaque one that covers her enough that from the back he can only see the tips of her hair hanging out midway down her thighs, and her skirt.

And maybe the thigh length black hair should have tipped him off but there are some places he  _really_ does not expect to see Iran, okay.

So he speeds up a little, swaying only slightly and calls out “Shalom!” and she  _doesn't_ stalk away angrily or yell at him, which is how he works out she must be about as trashed as he is when she turns around and says “Oh. It's  _you_ ,” in this incredible tone and gives him this look. Which is when he recognizes her, also.

It's a really amazing look, actually. It says  _you are the dirt under my feet_ and  _God, why do you inflict such trials on me_ and  _you had fucking better have an excuse for stopping me_ all at once and he opens his mouth to compliment her on it before realizing that is probably not a good idea. (See! He totally has sense!) 

Instead he goes with “ _Wow_ I did not expect to run into you here,” which perhaps, upon reflection, might not actually be better.

For a second he thinks she's about to actually reach out and strangle him, or maybe that lasers are going to shoot from her eyes, or that she's about to call down a curse on his head from ancient times and the sidewalk will crack open and swallow him.

Then she heaves a sigh ( _Why, God, why?_ ) and pulls her purse up on her shoulder and stalks off. He thinks he is about to be gracefully released for a second until she snaps “Hurry up, Zion.”

He hurries up.

She doesn't actually talk, and he's not all that sure where they're going. She just strides along, occasionally casting glares at him, either to ward him off there or check he's still following her. Once they've gotten through three blocks and he's very sure she's intending to stay silent until he talks, he starts trying on and discarding small talk openings: even drunk he's pretty sure “so why _are_ you here because last time I checked you kind of hated me and my people” isn't really that height of being-diplomatic-enough-people-stop-punching-him he's been aspiring to, but “Purim Sameach” seems just _wrong_.

On the other hand, the gnawing curiosity. It might be worth being punched.

They get all the way to a hotel entrance before Iran turns off their route. Noam is about to accept this as a dismissal and leave (and possibly crank call her from the safety of _his_ hotel to address that gnawing curiosity) when she shoots out an arm, locks her hand firmly around his wrist, and practically drags him along with her.

O _kay_ , then.

He keeps his mouth shut while being swept with her up the staircase, along the hallway and into her room. The sound of the lock on the door being engaged makes him nervous, and no one's ever accused him of being nice when he's scared so he goes ahead and says, “So do you go to _all_ festivals celebrating your defeats? Bathe in the animosity for fun?”

She glares at him balefully, but he's pretty sure it's just one of her standard, bottled glares, not her special _keep pushing and die glares_ , so he continues, “Seriously, last time I checked you hated my people?”

“I don't hate your _people_. I hate _you_ ,” she tells him and turns to engage the deadbolt.

Okay, seriously starting to be alarming here. At least it's only locked from the inside, but why is she planning on needing the deadbolt? He edges towards the window and turns to look out it like he's admiring the view. It actually opens, not like some hotels, and the drop is a mere twenty feet or so onto concrete; won't be fun at the wrong angle, but he can probably get out.

“Isn't alcohol _illegal_ in Iran?” he asks her (a question he knows the answer to perfectly well) and unlocks the window.

“We're not in Iran.” She is probably rolling her eyes right now. “And it may be produced or brought into the country by non-Muslims, particularly those who use it for religious rites.”

She sounds more exasperated than actually angry, so he cracks the window open – for the fresh air, _sure,_ also it'll be easier to throw open that way – and then turns to glance at her.

She's kneeling on the floor sorting through her luggage, not looking at him at all, so he relaxes a hair and says, “Yeah, but you're Muslim. _Not_ Jewish.”

“And we're not in Iran,” Iran repeats dryly. “And Esther was mine.”

“She was not. Your people practically killed her.” Noam is pretty fucking sure people whose countries had pogroms don't get to claim the victims of them, whether or not they're _from_ the area.

“She was my _queen_ , she was mine, you insolent brat.” Iran is still looking for something in her luggage. He hears the rustle of fabric and jewelry clinking – God, Iran takes a lot of clothing everywhere – and she straightens with something long and dark in her hands. “And I knew her personally, unlike you.”

“Shouldn't she have belonged to Judah?” Noam says. The longer she doesn't seem actively pissed off, the better he feels about edging back closer to her, into the room. He sits down on the bed.

Iran is looking for something else now, this time in her purse. “She belonged to both of us. You of all people know how that works, Little Zion.”

“What percentage would you say?” he asks inanely. “Mostly yours, mostly Judah's...? Fifty fifty, or more like thirty seventy?” Is she _serious_ about knowing Esther? He can never actually tell whether the really old Nations are messing with him or not. Sometimes he manages to forget for a while around her, that shit that got written down in the Bible is just childhood memories to her. It would probably be even weirder around Egypt, if Egypt wasn't younger than Iran.

“You also know it doesn't work like _that.”_ She straightens again, rises to her feet.

The Queen Esther costumes are always pretty cheesy looking on most people, realism isn't the point, but on her – when she rises, her hair flows around her and the bright purple veil over it, and the crown catches the light and there's this thin aura of _power_ over all of her. It's the thing that told him another Nation was there outside the synagogue and the thing that tells him now that he should be just a little bit terrified because he's in the room with something incredibly fucking dangerous.

He can really believe she's a queen for a second. His breath catches and there's sweat making his shirt stick to his chest and he's not sure whether he's scared or aroused. Catching sight of what's in her hands really doesn't clear up the confusion any, but it does distract him for a second.

“What kind of person keeps _handcuffs_ in her purse?” he asks her.

She sends him another glare, but he's good at reading her glares so he just smirks at her. This one's on the very edge of fond. Usually it takes longer to get it out of her, but he remembers they've _both_ been drinking for hours. Maybe she gets sentimental drunk?

“One who has to deal with you on a frequent basis,” Iran says, and catches his eyes in hers. “Kneel.”

He'd like to argue with her, but it's like something catches in his chest and he can't draw in breathe to refuse, and his legs seem to act without his permission because he just drops to the floor like he's really her subject, like her voice touches something in his brain.

She crosses the floor to him in a few steps, and has to lean over to cup his face. He always forgets how much taller than him she is, when they're not in the room together. She towers over him. Her hair falls down over her shoulders, closing off the world on either side of him. The sound of their breathing seems very, very loud.

“Israel,” she says. He focuses with difficulty, because using his _actual_ country name is a very rare thing from her and she only does it when she really wants his attention right now. “Do you remember the safeword?”

Safeword. Right. This is a game, not serious, at least as much as _anything_ Nations do together isn't serious. Reality comes crashing down on him, as good at waking him up as an actual wave of water to the face and a lot more pleasant. “Yeah,” he says, and repeats it, then, just to show he's really awake, adds “You don't have to deal with me that often. Especially not officially. Who are you going around handcuffing to things in meetings? Turkey?” And _then_ , just to annoy her, “The Ayatollah?”

“That would _not_ be of aid in diplomatic efforts. Quiet, or I'll gag you.” She puts the stuff on the bed and takes both of his hands, then lifts them up.

He's honestly kind of glad for the help; his balance isn't so great right now. She sits him down in a chair by the bed and orders him to strip casually, then turns away, presumably to start taking her own clothing off.

He scrambles out of his clothing quickly, watching her. She's unfastening the dress, a slightly flimsy looking tunic shaped thing, but when she turns back to him, the dress and her underthings are... basically all she took off. She still has the crown and veil on, and all of her jewelry.

He's really not an expert in jewelry, but what she's wearing looks _old_. Like, should be in a museum old. Like, matches the correct time period for the costume old. He kind of wonders if she's seriously intending to have sex wearing it.

But then again this is Iran so probably it's not the first time this jewelry has had body fluids on it.

“Back on the chair, Zion,” she orders him. The steel is back in her voice and he scrambles to obey without really thinking about it.

When she comes back over – and when he manages to tear his eyes away from her body – he sees that the dark thing she brought with the handcuffs is a scarf. She winds it around his wrist and through the handcuffs before closing the cuffs, he guesses as a sort of padding to keep the cuffs from biting into his wrist. (He isn't totally sure whether to be thankful for this unusual consideration by her, or moderately terrified about what she's going to do that she thinks he _needs_ it.)

Then she leans into him, letting her breasts fall against his face, and fiddles with the ends of the scarves. He's guessing that she's tying him to the chair. It's confirmed when she straightens and he pulls against the scarf.

Yeah. So much for unlocking and opening the window.

He should probably be panicking now – if it scares him to think he _might_ be trapped, actually being trapped is way worse, right? And yeah, his heart rate and breathing have picked up and he's a little shaky.

But instead of being overwhelmed by panic, it's like everything gets very clear inside his head, and he feels really, really calm, more than he ever is in real life. Every thought arrives between two heart beats but still seems to take an hour. His eyes are wide and his breathing is starting to slow again, and he looks up at her.

“Hey,” she says, low and amused. Her voice is dark and rich. He can almost taste it, although probably he's just drunk. She leans down to kiss him, her hair falling around his face again, and he can taste whatever she's been drinking on her.

It's definitely not the cheap vodka he was passing back and forth with a couple of guys around his apparent age. He doesn't know expensive alcohols very well but it tastes like it should be expensive, and there's something fruity in it, or is he just smelling her perfume?

She nips at him then, and he whimpers a little. His fingers are tangled in the fabric of the scarf. He clenches them tighter, hoping he doesn't rip it. (She's never _actually_ done anything to him in bed without consent, no matter how much he expected her to at first, and he's never said yes to being beaten, but he's pretty sure the closest she came to losing it at him was the time he accidentally ripped one of her shirts.)

When she pulls back, he whimpers again at the sudden absence of contact and warmth. The fluorescent light of the hotel room floods in, and he shuts his eyes against it. Way too bright. He wonders if he's starting to go from drunk to hungover, and tries to calculate how long it's been since he stopped drinking in preparation to walk home, but he's still too fuzzy to figure it out. So probably no.

Though Iran's presence has its own way of making his thoughts blur.

She bites him on the neck – just a pinch, her teeth closing over his skin for a moment – and he squeaks embarrassingly. Noam feels her fingers brush down his sides, feather soft, teasing him rather than really touching, and go on into his lap.

Where they pause.

He squints his eyes open a little bit to check what the problem is, and then feels his cheeks heat up, practically on fire with all the blood that should be, um, _elsewhere_. “Oh god,” he mumbles, leaning forward into her shoulder, which is just close enough he can hide his face in it. “I'm so sorry, I drank way too much today.”

He doesn't normally have trouble getting it up – his body stubbornly refuses to pass twenty, and therefore hasn't left the age where you can get a hard on from a stiff breeze – but, well, yeah. Smashed.

Iran trembles a little against him, and it takes him a second to release she's holding back laughter. “I promise I'm not offended,” she murmurs into his hair, and he can _hear_ her smirking again. Her hands resume movement, tracing tiny circles on his inner thighs that make him shiver.

“Kay,” he mumbles, leaning into her hands hard. “We don't have to stop?” He hates the way his words seem to quiver in the air and the way he trembles just at her touch, but he can't seem to sustain the energy to hate it, or to want it to stop. His embarrassment is like something physical, like he's trying to swallow rocks one at a time. Like he's choking them down and they're settling heavily in his stomach.

“Not as long as we're both enjoying ourselves,” she says with a little laugh, and folds down into her knees in front of him.

He jerks in surprise when her lips close over his cock. The cold metal of the crown is pressed into his belly – it's kind of pointy, he thinks it's probably going to leave red marks tomorrow, but he doesn't really care just now – and her hands are on his hips. They aren't doing much, just resting there. Maybe for balance or something.

Then she does something interesting with her tongue and he stops worrying about that. Her hair slides over his lap and hands off the edge of the chair, and the veil flutters over top of her hair. He wonders which one is softer, and has an intense urge to pet them and find out, but his hands are tied. His calluses catch on the weave of the scarf fastening them to the chair when he flexes them unconsciously.

“Shh,” she murmurs against him. Her breath against his groin is wet and hot. He should be practically orgasming by now, he was already keyed up when she leaned over, but his cock is barely stirring, for all he's squirming against the bonds.

It may not be getting anywhere, but her skin is warm and comfortable against him, and her touch against his cock makes him gasp and squirm all the same. The alcohol, the way the lights shimmer on the purple fabric and cast highlights in her dark hair, the sound of their breaths mingle into a vague impression of drowsiness and naked sensation. He seems to ricochet between being half asleep and very, very alert almost instantaneously, depending on what she's doing with her tongue and – occasionally – her teeth.

He has no idea how she's marking time or why she decides she's done, but eventually she shifts up again, off of his cock. The crown leaves a long scratch up his abdomen when she lifts her head, and she soothes it with her tongue, licking up his stomach. He has a disconcerting moment of wondering if she's licking up his blood or something, but he's pretty sure the jewelry isn't actually sharp enough to cut him.

When she gets up, cold air seems to rush in against his damp skin, and he shivers for an entirely different reason. She meets his eyes and quirks an eyebrow; he _knows_ she's waiting for him to say something asshole-ish so she can say something cutting back, and maybe have an excuse to drag him around and yell, but he can't think of anything. He lets his head fall back and his eyes almost close, instead.

She sighs, and the sound of it seems to last forever. Then her knees settle on either side of his thighs, and she rests in his lap. He has a moment of confusion – he's in no condition to be ridden, and if she wants him to finger her she kind of has to release his hands – before she shifts around, pressing one of his legs between hers, and brings one of her hands down. The other one goes around his neck, and she presses her forehead against his shoulder before she starts rocking against him.

The embarrassment is back. She's basically ignoring him completely, he can't even see her face, but he can tell he's going to be sticky from her when she's done.

He can also tell she's really, really wet, so apparently she _likes_ him in no condition to be used as anything but a toy to masturbate with, and wow his cheeks are heating up again. He makes a soft noise into her hair, involuntarily, and feels her laugh again.

“Problem, Little Zion?” she asks, raising her head. Her other hand slips out and pinches his cock lightly.

He yelps, because okay, there's still full sensation there, and _ouch_. “I thought you didn't like doing oral?” he asks. “Why do it when there's no point?”

She's shifting against him again, and her breath is coming faster. At least he's apparently _inspirational_ , and okay he'd like to pretend that wasn't a very nice thought but it kind of is.

“The _point_ is the thing I don't like,” she says dryly. “I don't like having semen in my mouth. If you had more self control, I might suck you off without you being drunk, but as it is this prevents that from being a – problem.”

Okay, seriously, _ouch_. He makes a little soft noise and she gasps again, and then her head drops back to his shoulder and he kind of suspects conversation isn't going to be a thing here for a few minutes.

He still can't see her face very well, but it's kind of interesting, anyway, watching her get off without being distracted by it himself. He's starting to sober up a little, enough that he can think. Enough that he can notice the way her breath comes in small, unsteady gasps, and her left hand clutches sporadically at his shoulder, and her head rocks forward and back against his cheek. He's not great at keeping his head during sex, and he pretty much never gets to see _her_ out of control.

It actually feels like too soon, when her movements pick up and her hips jerk, and then she slumps against him. She lets out a second long sigh, and her hair is falling across his back like silk, and he thinks about watching her rest there.

Then his brain reasserts control and he says, “Hey, Iran? Could you maybe move? My legs are going numb.” Not his best line, but, you know.

“Zionist brat,” she says, rolling her eyes, but she gets up and leans over to unfasten the cuffs and scarf.

He's starting to pass into the part of drunk that feels more like being vaguely nauseous and hating bright lights even more, and he's kind of sore just because she weighs probably twice what he does and that's not great for having her in his lap, and there are all kinds of body fluids drying on his legs and going from gross-but-helpful because lubricant, to half-dry and just _gross,_ and he's still, weirdly, glad he ran into her.

Which he never asked about, did he? He waits until he's not tied to the chair anymore and he's rubbing feeling back into his wrists to give her his best, shit eating grin and say “Purim Sameach. So, _why_ were you there...?”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from the [Book of Esther](https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/Bible/Esther.html), completely without context because I am fail.
> 
> The [historicity of the Book of Esther is debated](http://www.jewishencyclopedia.com/articles/5872-esther#anchor7); I have treated it as factual here because the canon involves the literal interpretation of national symbols.
> 
> It is a custom in many Jewish communities for women and girls to [dress up as Queen Esther](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/284641638920721897/) on Purim.
> 
> Purim Sameach just means "Happy Purim" in Hebrew, at least according to Google.
> 
> The [legality of alcohol in Iran](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alcohol_in_Iran).


End file.
